The Claws of Winter
by alanye
Summary: With winter at its worst, Sam insists on working long hours in the deepening cold. When his body gives out, how can Frodo stop him from pushing too hard and causing damage neither can fix?
1. Part One

Written for a challenge at Dedicated for Oni3 for the amazing plotbunny. Thanks so much!

This is not really divided up into chapters, but I am still going to post it anyway, because I live off of reviews. This is my new big project (if I don't have enough already), so just know that I'm still here and writing, even if I'm not on title is not set it stone, and I don't even know if I like it – It's definitely subject to change. But please enjoy – I'm trying to write a long story that is not in first person. I think it's doing pretty well so far, but make sure to leave your opinion in a review. Thanks!

Warnings – Yes, the plotbunny I accepted contains slash. No, this is not simply a love story. There _is _plot that isn't resolved simply through declarations of love. All this considered, on with the story.

The Claws of Winter

by alanye

Frodo looked out the window with his brow furled in a distressed frown. Even in the safety of his hobbit hole, a shiver of cold crept onto Frodo's skin, making him very thankful for the thick sweater Bilbo had given him. He tried to concentrate on his reading, but his eyes kept drifting to the window. The sun was setting, and it cast a purple winter light on the frozen greens of the Shire. Under normal circumstances, Frodo would have been overjoyed to gaze out the window on a perfect winter day at the beauty of nature.

But today he had something else to worry about. Samwise had not been taking care of himself. Frodo could see Sam's form straining in the garden suppressing shivers. He was crouching on the cold hard ground over the garden, checking that the plants had survived the first hard frost of the season. It seemed to Frodo that he had been out there the entire day, even when Frodo insisted that he come inside.

The first time he had been collecting firewood for the warm fire now cracking in the fireplace, the second he had been going to the market to buy Frodo the freshest tea, and now this. Frodo was worried; it was cold out and any sensible hobbit would be inside under a warm blanket.

Sam was hardly dressed for the weather either. He had on his normal weskit with a small tattered sweater on his shoulders. Even from his vantage point, Frodo could see the poorly patched holes in the garment. He wore a scarf around his neck, but no hat to cover his curly hobbit head. Even as a lad Frodo knew to wear a hat on the coldest of winter days. A warm hobbit is one with his head covered, Bilbo had said. From Frodo's experience, it proved to be the truth.

Frodo tore his eyes away from the window, and squinted at the Elvish characters on the parchment in front of him. He was preoccupied; the letters would not form words inside his head. Cerulean eyes snuck to the window and wandered out to the garden and its caretaker. Sam shouldn't put the flowers before his own health, Frodo thought. He needs to take care of himself. He is much more important. Frodo rose, placing his feet on the frigid stone floor of the study. It was far too cold to be outside.

He slowly walked light-footed through the halls and corridors of Bag End. The floor was cold, but the air was a comfortable shade of warmth that dispelled the fury of winter that knocked upon the door. Firelight danced on the walls in a vibrant yellow-orange tint that reminded Frodo of the summer light on Sam's golden head. It in itself was warm. Sam should be sharing this warmth with him.

Like the floor, the doorknob was cool to the touch, enough to make Frodo quickly withdraw his hand. After a few seconds, he opened the door and allowed winter's icy tendrils into the vivid warmth of the smial. He braced himself for the cold, but it was nothing like he expected. The wind gnawed at his face, drawing the warmth out through every inch of exposed skin. The sun had sunk lower in the sky, so even its slight warmth was no longer there to blanket the earth. The cold reigned.

Huffing, Frodo sped up the path as fast as his chilled muscles would carry him. When he reached his gardener, Sam had a wheelbarrow filled with rocks that he seemed to be moving to a different location. Frodo was aghast; Sam was definitely working too hard.

"Oh, hello Mr. Frodo," said Sam through clenched teeth. Frodo imagined that Sam's teeth would be chattering if his mouth were not shut so tight.

"Hello Sam," Frodo said, although he was not so good at masking his shivers.

"It's very cold out, sir. A hobbit such as yourself should not be out in this weather!" said Sam, his tone filled with concern. Frodo frowned. "Now, let's just get you back inside." Sam walked towards Frodo and put a freezing hand on Frodo's shoulder, turning him around to face the entrance of the hobbit hole. "Come on now."

"Sam. Why don't you join me inside for a cup of tea? You need to thaw your freezing hands!" Even through his heavy coat Frodo could feels Sam's hand as if it were a form of ice itself.

Sam, who had been intently staring into Frodo's eyes, cast his own to the ground. "That is one request I reckon I must decline, Mr. Frodo. There is still much work to be done, and the day is young yet." Frodo looked skeptically at the waning light.

"Now Sam, look at you! You aren't dressed properly, especially by Baggins standards. You at least need some thick gloves and a hat to cover your head. I insist that you join me inside. You look as if you need a break. There is still some of that delicious pie that you made yesterday in the cellar. That would do a cold stomach good."

"Again, I'd have to politely decline. I haven't any time for a break just yet. And besides, I'm not very hungry." This puzzled Frodo. Any hobbit, especially stout Sam could always find time for a meal. Something didn't feel quite right. He had always been a diligent worker, but this seemed a little extreme.

"Now, come along Mr. Frodo, let me get you inside." Frodo allowed himself to be led back down the path and into the doorway. He knew there was no use tearing Sam from his work, but this was simply unacceptable. He sighed.

"Sam, I want you to finish up quickly and run home. Make sure to warm up and bring a nice hat and coat tomorrow!" Frodo wanted more than anything to give Sam a day off, but he knew Sam wouldn't allow it. Not loyal Sam who was always there no matter what the weather had in store for him. He never faltered.

Sam began to turn back to his work.

"Yes, of course Mr. Frodo, sir." Frodo turned the handle of his door with slightly unresponsive fingers, and only once he was safely inside did Sam take his eyes away and walk back to the garden.

* * *

The rest of the day came and went with a few short interactions between Sam and Frodo, but Frodo was mainly silent. He watched Sam through the window often, and the worry increased with every passing hour. Sam trudged up and down the walk with wheelbarrows of who knows what, and Frodo could imagine the muscles under his skin straining under the weight.

Although it wasn't too long, the time stretched out into long strands until it was time for Sam to leave. Sam always left at the same time every day, rain or shine, hot or cold. This was another worry of Frodo's. As the winter days grew shorter Sam spent longer and longer outside without the sun's comforting presence warming the sky and seeping through the air. Longer for him in the time when the darkness took hold of the pleasant colors of the Shire and turned them dark as a coming storm.

Frodo could sense when Sam stopped working; it was something that he felt deep inside himself. It was a bitter feeling, for Frodo liked nothing more than to have Sam around him. His presence was a comfort. Frodo enjoyed the friendship of his gardener as well as his service. He didn't know what he would do if Sam ever wanted different work, or simply got tired of being around him. He hoped the day would never come when Sam wasn't there. But Frodo also wanted Sam to be happy and safe with his family. He looked forward to Sam's departure every day because it was a time for Sam to escape everything. But he longed for his return the following morning even more.

Frodo let his mind run in circles, tying his brain in sharp knots of thoughts. He hardly noticed when the time for Sam to leave came, and passed just as soon. He only noticed when he heard the wheelbarrow's spokes clattering against the pebbles that made up the path to Bad End. It must be twenty minutes past when he was supposed to leave. _Sam, what are you doing to yourself?_

He rushed to the doorway, grabbed his coat for the second time today and opened the door. He would've called out to Sam and forced him to go home if he didn't notice that he was indeed putting the wheelbarrow away and packing up to go home.

Words crept onto Frodo's tongue, words that would tell Sam what he wanted to say all day: that Sam needed a break and needed to go home and rest. But before he could, Sam's hazel eyes locked with his and he was at a loss for words. Even if his body was tired, his eyes glowed with the light of summer even in the dreary winter twilight. He looked... happy almost. Frodo didn't understand.

"Hello Mr. Frodo. Is there anything I can do for you?" His voice was like grass warmed by the sun: soft and comforting. Frodo decided to forget his chastisements. _Sam knows how to take care of himself. I know I can trust him._

"I was just seeing you off for the night." Frodo managed a weak smile.

"Well, thank you, sir. I just had to finish with this job. It would have kept me up all night if I didn't finish it."

Frodo laughed. Sam was the perfect gardener. He couldn't help but forget about his past worries. He almost forgot about the cold, too, until a tremor ran up his spine and caused his body to shake.

"I'd best be off. My Gaffer will be looking for me soon enough," he turned to leave. "If it's all right with you, sir," he added as an afterthought.

"Of course, Sam! You stayed far past the time we decided earlier. You are free to leave."

"Good night, Mr. Frodo."

"Good night, Sam." Frodo watched Sam's form departing down the path, lighting up the darkness surrounding him. The rich but small sound of Sam's singing could be heard as he padded away.

"See you tomorrow..."

Nothing was wrong. Sam was happy; all was normal.

* * *


	2. Part Two

It's been much longer than I would have hoped (as usual) but at least it wasn't months. I was writing a different Frodo/Sam story, actually, which may take me forever to finish. But now I'm back to this one, which is a good thing.

I hope you like this chapter. It seems rather long, so maybe it will make up for the wait. Enjoy, and don't forget to review! I didn't mention that this is slash before, because it doesn't have to be viewed as slash, at least not until much later, and perhaps not at all. This could be pictured as the love between two close friends. Simply remember it was written as slash. Sorry if that's not your thing.

And thanks again to Oni for the encouragement! I hope your internet gets fixed soon:)

Oh, just a reminder that this doesn't really have chapters, so this may start abruptly and it might be a good idea to refresh your memory on what happened directly before this... it sort of jumps right into a scene.

* * *

Part Two 

Cares forgotten, Frodo crawled into the warm embrace of his bed and the feathery softness made his eyelids fall, heavy. The sound of the winter wind was comforting, the simple sound moving in time with his thoughts. It wasn't long before he was taken by sleep.

And it was shorter still from the time his breathing slowed to the time the sun rose and its light flickered through the window into Frodo's sleep laden eyes. He stirred, barely moving, and rolled over in his warm haven of blankets and pillows. He wanted to stay like this forever: warm, naive, and happy.

His time of silence was cut short by a slight knock on the door. Almost inaudible, as if it were not meant to be heard. But Frodo knew it was, and answered it with a short "come in."

The door opened slowly, creaking in a high pitched good morning. Beyond it came the fair face of Sam. Frodo always took this time to let his gaze wander across the flawless face, memorizing every detail. His deep hazel eyes were complemented with his golden hair which hung in messy curls over his face and atop his head. The sun seemed to get caught in those curls, making them shine with the glow of morning.

His features were carved with a pale tone turned tan from many hours in the garden under the sun that painted his flesh. His nose was small and dotted with a few mottled freckles here and there. His lips were always curved into a delightful rosy smile, the epitome of happiness. It was a sight that stayed with Frodo always. Today was unlike any other, and Frodo again took this time to examine his friend's face.

But this was where the similarities ended. Sam looked _different_ today, and not in a positive way. His usually lighted eyes were dulled by the heavy circles. His hair was dirtier than usual, and his lips paler. They were still curved into a smile, but it seemed somewhat forced, as if he was hiding something behind it. Why should Sam feel the need to hide from him?

Working his way down, Frodo noticed how Sam's body was even smaller than usual, as if he had been losing weight. Sam used to be a healthy sized hobbit. What was happening to his friend?

"Good morning, Mr. Frodo," said Sam in a singsong voice. It flowed like liquid wind, brushing against his sleepy form from across the room. His voice was soothing and calm, full of thought and spirit. Frodo knew this was something about Sam that could never change.

"Why good morning, Sam." His words were covered with a deep yawn that caused Sam's face to light up in a laugh.

Frodo snuggled down deeper into the warm abyss and Sam strode over to the side of his bed.

"Anything I can get for you, sir?" Sam asked, still chuckling. Frodo always noticed the tenderness in his friend's face, and was so glad that he could have a warm friendship like this. These were the moments that he treasured.

"You're right, Sam." A confused look crossed Sam's face, for he could not quite understand what his master meant by these words. "I should at least be out of bed by this hour! By the light in this room it must be almost time for second breakfast. If you hadn't been there to wake me up, I might have slept a perfectly good morning away."

The smile returned to Sam's face as he reached for Frodo's hand to help him out of bed. Frodo knew he didn't exactly need this sort of help, but if it made Sam happy Frodo was willing to go along with it.

As if in sudden remembrance, Sam's face lit up. 'So much could be told by his expressions', thought Frodo and he stifled a laugh. 'Ever since he was a young child I could always read his emotions right there on his face...' Frodo looked at the wrinkles forming at the corner of Sam's eyes and the dark grey tone creeping into his skin, and questioned the authenticity of the statement.

"I have a nice breakfast ready to be cooked if you'll be wanting any," said Sam, breaking Frodo's thoughtful silence.

"That would be very nice, Sam," Frodo answered, and he suddenly became aware of his growling stomach.

"I'll go fetch that for you right away now." Sam bounded out of the bedroom leaving Frodo to marvel at his behavior. It was nothing out of the ordinary, yes, but coupled with the strange look of him Frodo began again to suspect that something was indeed wrong.

He let his mind wander while he dressed. If there was anything he could do for Sam, he would most definitely act upon it without the slightest hesitation.

* * *

After a nice breakfast of a fresh mushroom omelet Sam cooked for him, Frodo watched sadly as Sad went outside to work in the garden. Again Frodo had protested that Sam should stay inside. Besides, there are many chores that can be done in the warmth of the smial, he had said, but Sam insisted that he work outside.

As soon as the wooden front door closed behind Sam, Frodo scampered off into the study that had a clear view of the garden. He lit the fire with the extra wood Sam had collected on the previous day, and sat down in his soft chair. This time he wouldn't even pretend he was doing anything other than watching his gardener through the window; his books were closed on the table.

His eyes wandered past the path, past the plants, and past the fence to where Sam stood hunched over in the garden. The clouds blocked out the sun, so the light upon the land was a tinted grey. The colors seemed dim, changed from vivid hues of green and gold to blunt tones ranging from blue-grey to pale cream. All these helped intensify the presence of Sam, who seemed to evade the surrounding darkness.

Yesterday it had been cold, but today it seemed even colder just by looking at the way Sam was shivering. Frodo had told him to bring a warm coat and a hat, but Sam must have forgotten; Sam was wearing the same amount of clothes he had the day before. Frodo sighed, and worry threaded through his thoughts as he watched Sam.

Frodo wanted his friend to be healthy more than he wanted him to keep the garden in shape. Hadn't he told Sam that he would choose his health over the gardens well being? And wouldn't Sam know that anyway? Frodo needed to find out what was wrong with Sam, find out why he was acting the way he was.

"Maybe it's something that I'm doing..."

Frodo squashed the thought from his head before he had the time to develop it. He turned his gaze back to Sam and the lonely garden where he was working. Frodo squinted and tried to get a better view of what Sam was doing. He was on his hands and knees and seemed to be crawling around in the garden, reaching for something that Frodo could not see. Although he wasn't a complete failure, Frodo knew little about gardening. But from what he did know it seemed a bit strange to pull weeds in the winter when the ground was frozen.

After a few minutes of this action being repeated, Sam stood up and wiped the dirt from his pants. Frodo got a view of his hands which were chilled from being exposed to the cold air. Today there weren't even the rays of the sun to keep the cold at bay.

Sam continued to trot around the garden all day doing this and that, hardly noticing the bitter temperatures. Frodo had no trouble at all noticing them even inside, because they crept through the closed windows and through the rooms of Bag End. Frodo began to tire of watching Sam, for with each glance a fear for his health rooted in his stomach and refused to leave.

Frodo turned his head in order to find something useful to do, but he could come up with nothing in his preoccupied state of mind. His gaze fluttered back to Sam, and suddenly, he got an idea. He jumped up, almost knocking over his chair in the process. It swayed on two legs, before righting itself as Frodo bounded out of the room.

He grabbed his coat, scarf, and hat on his way to the deeper passages of Bag End. The path twisted and turned and rooms came and went on either side until Frodo found the room he was looking for. He opened the closet door, grabbed what he needed, and slammed it closed behind him.

"Why didn't I think of this sooner?"

Returning to the front of the smial, Frodo stopped to put on his warm clothes as well as catch his breath; the chambers of Bag End go back far into the hill. Soon enough, he grabbed his bundle and headed out into the cold of the early afternoon.

As he predicted, it was indeed colder outside than the day before. The wind nipped at Frodo's face and hands, and he had no idea how Sam could manage in this weather. "Any sensible hobbit would be inside," Frodo thought. "There must be a reason for this," he pondered as he walked down the steps. "Sam was normal as any self respecting hobbit, and used to take proper care of himself on all occasion. What has to change?"

The closer Frodo got to Sam, the more he began to shiver. "It must be getting colder by the second," Frodo though, although at the same time he wondered just how large a part the cold played in his reaction. "Am I nervous to be with Sam? I know he's been acting strange, but he's still the same Sam. Nothing can ever change _that, _I'm sure."

Frodo looked down at his feet, watching every step he took. Maybe everything would be better if he didn't look up, if he didn't see Sam's hidden pain up close.

"Hello Mr. Frodo," came the polite but forced greeting when Sam finally acknowledged his master's presence.

With much difficulty, Frodo raised his eyes to meet those of his gardener. His voice was shaky, but he managed to reply.

"We- well hello, Sam." Frodo's words stumbled, but Sam didn't seem to notice.

"It's very cold out, sir. A hobbit such as yourself should not be out in this weather."

Frodo stopped. Weren't those the exact words Sam had spoken yesterday? His eyes narrowed. Staring deeply into Sam's eyes, Frodo noticed that his gaze was not being returned. Sam seemed distant, as if his mind was sailing away with the cold wind. Frodo couldn't evade the question any longer.

"Sam, are you really all right?" His words were strong but his gaze revealed his true concern. A few moments of silence hung between them, until Sam formulated an answer.

"Mr. Frodo, I'm truly fine."

"But Sam, look at yourself!" His voice rose. "You haven't been acting like yourself for so long! You never take breaks from your work, you are always tired, and you hardly eat; I know you've lost weight. Even though you insist that you're fine, I know something's different. I know you, Sam. And this isn't you."

Frodo found himself panting, his breath coming hard in his chest. But he didn't seem to care; this is as good a reason as any to get worked up.

"Calm down, Mr. Frodo. It's the cold talking, I reckon. Now you better come inside and warm up. You look awful cold."

"You're avoiding the question." The retort shot out of his lips before Frodo had a chance to stop it.

Sam had no response. His gaze hardened and he turned away.

A cold confusion swept through Frodo's mind. "Why is he denying that anything is wrong? How can he pretend there is nothing strange going on? If he does then he will never let me set it right..." Frodo's thoughts echoed in his head.

There was nothing more to speak of. Frodo felt defeated, and he didn't know how to fix what had gone astray. His footsteps were heavy, and although the cold was ever present, it seemed dull and faded. His shoulders sagged, and the bundle he carried slumped in his hands.

"Oh!" His eyes flew open and he quickly turned back to Sam.

"I was going to lend these to you, Sam," said Frodo, holding out the package. "Because you didn't seem to bring warm enough clothes, I rummaged through my old closet and found some that would fit you nicely."

Sam's eyes were vacant.

"Here, take them. You'll work better if you are warm." He hopelessly held out the clothes, but Sam made no move to receive them.

"Thank you, Mr. Frodo. That is very kind of you. I know you feel the need to do this for me, but there ain't anything wrong with me. I'm awful warm as it is." Frodo raised his eyebrows at Sam's shivering form. "Save them for a day when you might need an extra coat."

"Sam, I insist. Please take them... For me." For a moment Sam stopped, his eyes lingering on Frodo's, but he shook his head.

"You shouldn't have to do this for me. I'm only your gardener."

"But you're my friend, Sam. And friends look out for each other. You would do the same for me, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, of course Mr. Frodo! I would never make you work in this dratted cold. You would be safe inside with a warm cup of t..." But Sam stopped as he realized what he was saying, and what Frodo was trying to do for him.

"At least take the hat, Sam. I don't like to see your head uncovered."

"A..all right." Sam reached a tentative hand out towards Frodo and took the hat in his fingers. He gingerly placed it on his head, pulling it over his frozen ears. The ghost of a smile graced Frodo's lips as he turned away, casting one last look at Sam.

The hat hung on his head almost sideways, making him look very young and very handsome indeed. His smile grew.

Almost immediately remembering the cold himself, Frodo began to quicken his pace until his was safely engulfed in the warmth of Bag End.

* * *


	3. Part Three

Phew... It has been a while! I'm sorry that this took so long.. I took a break from anything fanfiction related. Not sure why, but I haven't even ventured into the world of fanfiction since my last update. But I went back and read this, and I decided that I would really like to finish it because I like the story. So, bear with me, and hopefully someday I will finish it.

* * *

Part 3

While each day stretched into a miniature eternity, weeks passed in a measured rush. Frodo, in his free time, managed to watch the winter weather increase in intensity, and with each day Sam seemed more distant. He was developing some sort of sickness from the cold. His nose was always running and he was always shivering. Even though Frodo went through everything he could to keep Sam warm, he wouldn't have anything to do with Frodo's efforts.

Everything Frodo did, Sam politely declined or found some excuse to stay out in the garden. Frodo was becoming even more worried about his friend, but could not even begin to figure out what was causing Sam's strange attitude. There was nothing he could imagine that would cause it, but it must be something heavy that weighed on his soul.

Frodo looked out the window and paced, for he could see in the clouds that a storm was coming. Their grey blanket covered the sky, and threatened to open up and douse the world with a wintry storm. He wondered if Sam would insist that he be outside even then.

Time seemed to creep through his mind, and before he knew it, it was mid afternoon, and he heard a knock on his door. He slowly got up, and walked through Bag End to the door. Upon his arrival he noticed to his delight that it was Sam; hopefully he was telling his Master that a storm was coming, and that he best be getting home. Frodo was glad to see that Sam's sense had come back to him.

"Hello, Sam!" said Frodo in a pleasant greeting. He smiled at his friend who looked absolutely chilled by the cold and the storm's presence.

"Mr. Frodo," he replied in a half hearted hello. "I won't be staying long," he paused, "but I just thought I'd stop by and tell you..."

"Why of course you can, Sam! Look at the sky. A storm is brewing, and I wouldn't want anyone out in that kind of unpredictable weather. If you want, I'll even walk you home." Sam's eyes hovered, and Frodo began to feel slightly uncomfortable in the silence.

"Well, you see sir," he began, "I was goin' to ask your permission to go out and chop you some more firewood, as you seem to be low, if I'm not mistaken." He fidgeted, and Frodo sighed, heart dropping.

"Sam, I know that nothing I can say will stop you from venturing out there, but at least listen to me." Sam began to cough, and even in the heat of Bag End, he shivered. Frodo had been watching his health, which was slowly deteriorating; he had a cold at least, and with his work habits he wouldn't be getting better soon, judging by Sam's stubbornness of late.

"It's cold, Sam," continued Frodo, "and I have a feeling deep inside that is warning me against this; I don't feel right about it, and I would never want anything to happen to you."

"That I know for sure, Mr. Frodo. And I'm sure I'll be fine." He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "I think I know how about weather in the Shire, being that I've lived here all my life," he joked, and Frodo tried his best to smile. He managed a crooked half-grin.

"And I'm sure I know myself just as good by now. And you can trust me." Sam's words caught in Frodo's mind. _I can trust him. I have trusted him, always will, but how can I trust him when I know that what he's doing is wrong? _

"Well," he began shakily, "I have no choice but to trust you." Sam's face hardened. "I don't feel right, but if this is what you want, I know you will make the right decision." But he knew in his heart that he wouldn't; Sam's mind was already made up.

"Thank you, sir. I'll be back soon, with more firewood to keep you warm." And with that he flashed Frodo a warm smile, before receding back into the cold.

Frodo sadly watched as his friend walk back out through the crisp air, fetch his wheelbarrow, and roll it down the path. The wheel squeaked, and Sam's face, which was cheery and smiling a mere second ago, was dark and hardened, and most definitely cold.

And as if on cue, the sky seemed to split, and a single snowflake fell through the air and landed on the lonely path leading away from Frodo and his home. More followed, but the snowfall was light, and simple enough to be called beautiful.

After a few time stopping-minutes of watching the shimmering snowflakes fall across the receding light, and landing on the ground only to melt and disappear forever, Frodo decided that he needed to do something to occupy himself.

As if from hobbit nature, his feet carried him to the pantry. He arrived at the door, wondering why he even decided to walk there, and his grumbling stomach reminded him that he was indeed hungry. What better way to pass the time than to cook something for himself and Sam to enjoy upon his return?

Frodo enjoyed cooking well enough, but did not do so as much as he would have liked; Sam did the cooking at Bag End for the most part. He opened the creaking door to the pantry and was suddenly immersed in the warm smells of spice and musty foods. He took a deep breath of the flavored air, savoring the smells that wound through it.

It always reminded Frodo on his days down at Brandy Hall with his parents before they died. He didn't remember very much, but he always remembered the distinctive smells of uncooked food. They made Frodo smile, and all he could think about was the smell of the spices, or the onions, or all the biscuits Sam had baked the day before, which were being stored in the haven of the pantry.

Frodo then was having trouble deciding what to make; there was such a large variety of ingredients and recipes. He wanted to make something warm, something easy on the stomach, something that would make him and Sam smile.

He looked through the shelves of flour, sugars, cinnamon, and other ingredients that he could use in baking something for Sam. He was pacing back and forth, thinking about his favorite meals when he noticed something on the shelf, between jars of oats that he had bought earlier that year on a special trip to the market.

Reaching carefully between the two glass jars, he pulled out a tattered slip of paper. At first he thought it was a recipe, and was excited to see what secret delights Sam was planning for in the kitchen. The paper was dirty, smeared with dirt or perhaps age, so Frodo was careful when unfolding it.

When the full page was in his view, he had to squint in the dim light to determine what it said. He leaned on the shelf and hunched over the page. Frodo recognized the script as Sam's, tilted and shaky. Although Sam's handwriting was never perfect, Frodo was always able to translate what he wrote into readable script. But it seemed that this note was not meant to be understood. Wherever there was script, there was ink scraped over it, crossing out the words.

It was rendered unreadable, and Frodo was utterly confused. Why would Sam cross out a recipe? Or maybe it wasn't a recipe. It had to be something else, but Frodo had no idea what it could be. He squinted again, but was only met with scratched out words forming unrecognizable sentences. _Why would Sam leave something like this in my pantry? _

Frodo turned to move and get a better look at the page, flipping it over to see if there was anything on the other side that he could possibly read. He shifted slightly, brushing against the contents on the shelf. And before he had a chance to react, he was met with the crash of glass as one of the oatmeal jars fell from the shelf to the ground.

Frodo uttered a small curse, and stuffed the note on the next shelf, forgotten. He then rushed out of the pantry to grab a broom to clean up the glass and the spoiled oats. Feet cold on the ground, he returned to the pantry with a broom in hand.

"How could I be so foolish to spoil perfectly good food? I've been so preoccupied lately..." Frodo mumbled to himself, dissatisfied with his actions. "I had two jars of these oats; I could've made oatmeal. Oh! That's it! I'll make oatmeal! I'm sure Sam would love that." _Why didn't I think of that sooner before I ruined other jar? _

But at least this idea motivated Frodo to clean up the pantry quickly, and get to work boiling water over his warm fire in the kitchen. He carried remaining jar of oats in one hand, happily humming to himself and looking forward to making Sam happy with a warm belly.

Thin streams of fragrance wafted out from the kitchen of Bag End in waves. The hint of autumn leaves in the oats, the soft spice of cinnamon strong enough to recognize but not overwhelm the other scents, as well as other assorted flavors mixed into a solution that smelt of warmth; one whiff was enough to make any hobbit's stomach growl. Frodo looked smiled, looking out across the table. The dining room was just east of the kitchen in Bad End. It wasn't a small room; it was large enough to fit a dozen grumbling hungry hobbits at once, but empty it was almost depressing. So much room, so little company.

Frodo had scrounged through all of the storage rooms and found some of his fanciest napkins, a soft cloth, hand-embroidered with Elvish characters, each depicting one line from a song. Sam loved the illustrations in many of the Elvish books they read together, so Frodo thought they were the perfect addition to Sam's perfect dinner. Two large candles were placed at either end of the large table, from which a light crisp glow emanated in a circular pattern across the walls. On each side of the table two places were set with the finest of dishes. But in the center was where many hobbits' eyes would fall first. There was a large kettle of fresh oatmeal, steam slithering out through any minute opening that could be found, becoming thin spirals to mix with the smoke from the candles up in the shadows.

Next to this was a thin plate covered with baked cinnamon apples, sliced in a thin pattern and arranged in a delicately constructed, meticulously crafted arrangement. Frodo let his eyes travel over the table, regarding each item in relation with the other. After his careful planning, everything _fit, _and it was certainly good enough to eat. Frodo could feel his stomach rumbling, and his nose taking deeper breaths of the scented air. His eyes fell closed. There was only one thing that could improve this picture.

Frodo walked happily with a spring in his step to the door, meaning to call Sam in from the cold. He was proud of himself, for it was not often that the master of Bag End made a delicious meal for his servant. But Sam was an exception; he always was. Frodo reached the entryway and abruptly stopped. He was expecting to find a setting sun disappearing behind thick clouds, the darkness seeping across the land like a scarf. He expected to see a few snowflakes falling in an irregular pattern down, melting as they hit the ground. He expected to see Sam trudging up the steps to his door.

Alas, none of Frodo's fantasies proved to be the truth. He peeked out the window, and could hardly see the garden from where he stood. The sun had set completely, leaving only black in its wake. And even if it was lighter out, he may not have been able to see the garden anyway. Large thik snowflakes fell, making another wall between inside and out, warm and cold, him and Sam. Sam...

And Frodo remembered. He must have been preoccupied with his cooking, making everything perfect for Sam when he got home. When he got home... He had forgotten. Sam went to get firewood from the forest. He left in this weather. Frodo didn't know how late it had gotten, but it must surely be past supper time. And worst of all, there was no sign of Sam. There were no footprints, no wheelbarrow tracks, nothing. An emptiness exploded in Frodo's heart as a wave crashes on rocks. _What have I done?_

There was only one thing Frodo could do. "How could I have abandoned my friend when he needed me the most? I let him go away even when I knew something bad would happen. I was selfish; I wasn't even thinking about Sam and his health. I have been the entire winter and now it may be too late. Oh, Sam..."

Frodo rushed to the closet and bundled up in warm clothes, grabbing extra layers to give Sam if he found him. When he found him. His head was spinning. He could not get this terrible picture out of his head: Sam was sitting on the forest floor near a tree, wearing hardly any clothes at all, with snow piling up over him. His wheelbarrow sat near, forgotten. Sam's eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and heavy. His face was a pale blue, his lips frozen. He was barely living...

That was enough. Frodo knew he was going out into the cold for his friend, as Sam would do for him. It may be rash, he thought, but this was something he would never get to redo. If Sam was out in the cold, as his heart told him, and he stayed home to wait for him... Frodo couldn't even begin to imagine the guilt that he would feel for the rest of his life. There would hardly be a will to live if he knew he had left his best friend to...

Frodo snapped out of his thoughts, and spent every ounce of control he had to focus on the task ahead of him. He rushed back towards the kitchen to get a candle to take with, hoping to illuminate a path in the impending darkness that appeared too thick to be broken. And as Frodo ran past, the soft, pleasant aromas drifted up his nostrils, the warmth mocking him and his problems, and most of all, mocking Sam. This was wrong. He could not be in here while his friend froze to death. Frodo grabbed the candle and snuffed it out with two fingers; it would be of no use in such a storm. He looked back at the table, the food calling to him. His stomach twisted in disgust.

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	4. Part Four

Hmm, a review for a different story cause me to look back at all the work I had posted on this site; I seem to have forgotten about it, as you can probably see. I was checking back and today is this fic's birthday (at least when I started writing this chapter!). Phew, it certainly doesn't feel that long to me. It must to you guys though, and I'm sorry about that! I have another Frodo/Sam fic that I found in my archive that is aching to be finished – a rather long one shot, more poetic, less plot – but I feel the need to update this first. Update… wow… I bet you weren't expecting that one!

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Part Four

The door slammed behind Frodo as he dashed down the path as fast as his legs would carry him. The second he stepped outside he felt the effects of the cold; it wasn't a simple snowstorm: it was a blizzard. Coupled with the wind, the snowfall was a force to be reckoned with. Although he was bundled up with his coat, hat, and scarf, the small pieces of Frodo's face open to the cold were pelted with the flakes that flew in all directions. This was no place for a hobbit.

His running slowed to a quick-paced gait as he lost his breath. He kept his head down, trying desperately to be free of the wind. One thing he knew for sure: he had to find Sam, and quickly. But where could he have gone? Frodo began to see how hopeless his situation had become. How was he supposed to find Sam? He could be anywhere!

Frodo looked around, but in the dying light and the tornados of snow he could barely see the path beneath his feet. It was a fool's search, but he knew that it was the only thing he could do. It is what Sam would have done for him. He can't say it is what Sam would have wanted him to do, and that hurt, but it was worth it for once to disobey Sam. He had to take this into his own hands if he wanted to see his gardener healthy again. Now where had he gone…

Ah! He had remembered. Sam was going to get more firewood. 'I knew I never should have let him go,' Frodo thought, frantically. 'But how was I supposed to stop him? He hasn't been listening to anything I've said for a long time now! I would have had to drag him inside and bolt the door…' He shivered as the snow found its way inside the neck of his coat.

'But this is accomplishing nothing.' Frodo slowed to a walk and began to formulate a plan. 'Sam went to cut firewood. The east grove is a ten minute walk on the mildest of summer days, but Sam says that's where the best wood can be found in the winter. He's got to be there.'

Hopelessness began to creep over Frodo. Even if he could make it to the woods, even if he could find his Sam, what made him think that Sam would be okay? What made him think that he would be able to drag Sam back to Bag End? In all honesty, Frodo was at all loss; he had no idea what to do. But what was he doing right now? He was not moving forward at all, just simply staying in the same place and worrying. He had to go to the forest, whether he had a chance of finding Sam or not. He had wasted enough time already, and he hoped against hope that he would not be too late.

Frodo didn't think it was possible, but the wind had picked up and the snow seemed to be piercing his thick winter coat with the force of knives. He struggled to keep his footing against the wind, grabbing vainly at the fence so he did not slip. The ground was wearing an icy blanket and Frodo knew that with one misstep he could twist an ankle, making it impossible to save Sam, and maybe impossible to get back inside himself. Everything mattered now; he could not make any mistakes.

He trekked on.

The sun was emitting a dim glow from the horizon, but it was barely noticeable; the snow was falling so thick. Frodo clung to the fence, knowing that he might as well take advantage of it before he had to turn and take the path down to the woods. How he would manage from there, he didn't know. But his will was set, and he would not turn back without Sam. He couldn't.

Frodo's feet were numb, his hands trembling, and his eyes watering but he didn't even notice anymore. He had to put his own pain aside if he was ever going to bring Sam home. Sam deserved so much more than this, and Frodo had to make sure he was safe. Then he could begin to treat Sam as he should have since this trouble began. He had to talk some sense into him. And he would, that is.. if he ever got the chance..

The snowflakes began to increase in size, and the sun sank even lower. Frodo knew that he would not be able to last too much longer under these conditions even with the proper clothes. His worry for Sam increased a thousandfold. Sam, Sam…

His mind clouded and all he could think about was that warm smile, those hazel eyes, that soft voice so selfless and caring. How could he let this happen? He crushed his half frozen hands into fists and doubled his speed. He wasn't going to let this happen. He wasn't going to let a simple mistake, a wave of stubbornness, interfere with.. no.. destroy his friend's life. He couldn't do that to his Sam. He turned towards the woods.

As he reached the edge, the trees loomed up in front of him. The branches were swaying with the wind, not in a gentle manner but a rapid whipping of limbs every which way, snow falling in clumps from the canopy and onto the floor. It was treacherous; Frodo hoped that no fallen branches had gotten in Sam's way…

Ai! He winced at the thought. "Sam, Sam!" he called, his voice hoarse. "Sam, just say anything! Let me know you're with me!" His voice was lost to the howl of the storm. It was swirled up and taken away, never reaching its target. But Frodo didn't notice. He couldn't feel the wind; he couldn't feel the snow. All he could feel was his anger, his determination. He had to find Sam, and soon. If he didn't… Frodo didn't even let himself finish that thought. He wasn't going to let Sam die. Sam, so young, so strong, would not fall to nature's icy grasp.

Frodo tried to walk in a straight line, to follow the path, but in truth he had no idea whether or not he was headed up or down, east or west. It was impossible to tell, with the snow, but he let his senses guide him. They were all he had left now.

Frodo blinked, keeping his eyes shut for a moment longer than necessary. Behind his lids shot a horrible image. Sam was huddled under a tree, clutching his bear arms for warmth, shivering uncontrollably. Frodo rushed to him in his mind's eye, but it was too late. His friend's once gleaming eyes were dimmed, and as they looked up at their master, showed a look of defeat. And moments later, they were closed and Sam moved no more.

"Sam!" Frodo shouted, and this was followed by a yelp as he crashed into something in front of him. "Ack!"

His cry faded to nothing. Frodo tried to steady himself so he didn't fall, so he didn't let the storm get the better of him. He grabbed onto the closest thing, something waist height. He quickly took a closer look, squinting through the snow.

"What.." Frodo pondered, until all at once it was clear in his mind. "The wheelbarrow! Oh, Sam, Sam, where are you!"

Frodo knew that Sam had to be nearby. He had never once seen him go far from the wheelbarrow when chopping wood – no need to carry the wood further than necessary he always said – and there's no way the wheelbarrow could have moved without Sam's pushing it. Frodo scanned the ground but could not see through the snow. Try as he might, he could see nothing but white against the black of night. The sun had set, and the world was truly black.

He started. Black or not, Frodo was going to find Sam. He was going to, he was going to…

And all at once, the world whirling around him and the snow spinning, wind snapping, he stumbled. His foot caught a root, and he fell to the ground, dropping the clothes he had been helplessly attempting to carry in order to give to Sam when they were reunited. They scattered across the ground, atop the snow.

Frodo cursed. He crawled, unable to stand for the time being as the weight of the darkness pulled him down. His hands reached blindly for the clothes he had dropped, willing them to come back into his grasp. And to his surprise, his hands grasped something else entirely.

"Unghhhh."

Frodo heard a sound. It was barely audible above the roar of the storm, but it didn't matter.

"Sam!" Frodo shouted.

And before his very eyes, the scene unfolded in front of him. There was Sam, his jolly, healthy Sam, crumpled and broken on the ground. Inching closer, Frodo found himself even with Sam's drooping head. He could see his hazel eyes, half closed and unfocused, staring into nothing.

Frodo panicked. He did the only thing he thought to do; he pulled Sam's half frozen body to his own, ripping off his glove in an attempt to feel Sam's face. The second his hand made contact he wished he hadn't; Sam's face was ice. The cold around him seemed thwarted as his hand came in contact with Sam's flesh. Frodo felt ice cold, no, colder flesh below his fingertips. He felt the tears appearing in his eyes freeze over as the touched the wintry air. No. _No._

"Fr… Frodo…"

Frodo heard Sam's weak whisper, and that was all it took to snap him out of his reverie and bring his mind back to the task at hand; there was time for worrying later after they were both safe. Safe. Warm. The thought seemed so alien to him now, along with the dinner he had cooked for Sam so long ago. He shuddered, and his heart broke as he looked down at Sam, whose eyes had slowly drifted closed.

"Damn it all!" He shouted to the depths of winter, who mocked his pain with its icy frost. A limb fell somewhere in the distance.

"I have to get you home; I have to get you home…" Frodo repeated, over and over, as he tried to drag Sam up. This was harder than he could have ever imagined. Sam, even after he lost so much weight, was still larger than Frodo himself and still weighed quite a lot, though not by normal hobbit standards. Frodo knew he could not bring himself and his Sam back to Bad End; it was not possible for a hobbit of his stature to make such a journey. It seemed impossible.

"We're going to freeze; the winter is going to win. We're not going to make it. I'm going to let him die; I'm going to let Sam down."

As Frodo's thoughts span inside his head, frantic as the storm, he backed up, dragging Sam as well as he could, and his back hit something hard. He cried out, cursing again, before turning around to see what he had backed into.

It was the wheelbarrow.

Almost as a sign from the heavens, Frodo rejoiced for a split second. He could manage this now, he thought; he could bring Sam back. With all his might, he hoisted his now unresponsive Samwise into the wheelbarrow, being ever so careful that he did not hit Sam's head. But secretly Frodo knew Sam was too far gone to even feel it.

Once Sam was inside the arms of the wheelbarrow, he set his mind to the new, strenuous task at hand. Frodo had never been good with wheelbarrows; he had spilled many a barrel full of wood in his day. And this was totally different. It was not a matter of wasted time or a sore back upon picking up the dropped wood; it was a matter of life and death.

"I have to do this. I have to do this. I have…" Frodo repeated over and over, again and again, as he took one step, then another. His steps were in time with his mantra.

Step.

"I have to do this."

Another step.

"I can do this."

Two steps.

"I must do this."

Another step.

And as the wind howled, the snow beat at his body, but he didn't notice anymore. All his mind, all his body, his entire being was focused on the wheelbarrow and Sam's unconscious form. The storm was beginning to become irrelevant. Sam was the only thing that mattered. He had to bring him back.

"I can do this."

The woods began to fade behind him.

"This _will_ happen."

He could see Bag End.

"I have to make it."

The gate was on his right.

"I have to save Sam."

He could see the door.

"I can, I can."

He pushed, to the doorstep, and grabbed for the doorknob.

"_Sam will be okay."_

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End file.
